Free-fall
by gimmeabreakxD
Summary: She realized it was a bad idea when, minutes after she saved his life, he started insulting her fashion sense. [AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

* * *

_"I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center." _

— _Kurt Vonnegut, _Player Piano

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night.

Okay, so that was a horribly clichéd beginning. But I tell it like it is, okay? Sheesh. I'm not a writer. It was night. It was dark. And it was stormy. What do you want me to do?

Right. So it was dark and stormy. Well, not so much stormy as raining a bit—more like a drizzle—but stormy sounds more ominous.

Oh, hell. Let me start over.

It was nighttime rush hour. Cars honking, the line barely creeping. You know, a regular traffic jam. I twiddled the knobs on the stereo but nothing good was on. Peachy. The rain was the misty kind: fine, almost powdery. I didn't even have to use the wipers too much.

Of all the places I could get stuck in, I just had to pick a bridge. My car was past halfway through the damned thing, but it was taking _forever _to get out.

I'm prone to exaggeration at the best of times.

On the flipside, it was pretty up there. The urban sort of pretty. If you looked to the side, you could admire the city's upside-down reflection on the river. Fancy lights and stuff. And the road, too—it was slippery, you know, because of the rain, so it mirrored the red brake lights of the cars before me.

So I counted my blessings and found out that what the hell, the universe still owed me. I hate traffic jams as much as the next guy. Girl. Whatever.

And then I saw him.

Way to the side, a lone shadow, looking down.

At first I thought, Funny place for a walk. And then, Nice jacket. And then—

My sluggish brain caught up to what I was seeing, and before I could slap myself I was out of the car, into the rain-drizzle-whatever, in front of the guy.

He stared at me. I stared at him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I yelled. I couldn't help it. He was going to freaking _jump_, for the love of waffles. And nobody even cared! Of all the people out there, in their cars, nobody even thought to stop this guy from killing himself? I thought I was being mild.

He shrugged, indifferent to my mildness. "I dropped my pen." He glanced down at the river, with its pretty urban reflection pelted by raindrops. "I was going to dive after it."

Like hell.

"Screw your pen." I dragged him to my car by the arm. Maybe I was making a mistake, maybe I was being too nosy. But I filed those doubts away for later. "I'm taking you home."

To my surprise, he didn't even put up a fight. Weird guy. Well, he did just try to kill himself. But he could've, I don't know, struggled a bit to make it seem more dramatic, right? Like in those movies: two people in the rain, silhouetted against the city lights.

_Leave me alone._

_I can't._

_Life isn't as precious as you think._

_Not to you._

_I said leave me alone!_

See, something like that. A heavy black-and-white film noir: ooh, how theatrical. But I guess reality kinda disappoints when compared to fiction. So, anyway.

We got into the car. I didn't even care that we were both wet. Okay, damp. Up close, I got the impression that the guy was pretty well off. I mean, he looked refined, and _nice jacket_, by the way, but it had more to do with how he carried himself: posture or whatever. So posh. I'd peg him as an opera-goer. If I hadn't heard him talk, I'd have thought he had a British accent.

Wait, was that racist? I don't even know anymore.

Maybe it was the blond hair or the baby-blue eyes. Or the vacuous look. Rich people are like that. They look at you like they don't have souls. (I'm generalizing here, as I don't know any rich people.) But my money's still on the posture.

The guy just sort of looked at me blankly, as if he was waiting for instructions. Which he was.

"Okay," I said. "Where do you live?"

He shrugged again. I swear that's his signature move or something. "I'd rather not go home."

"Sure. Okay." I took a deep breath. I needed to be patient. He must've been really messed up to try suicide—depression, maybe? Family troubles? Figures he didn't want to go home. I had no experience with troubled people, but I knew I had to be kind, at least. "So what am I gonna do with you?"

So much for kind.

"Not my problem." He was scratching at the upholstery, or what was left of it. Pfft, rich kids. Probably checking for bed bugs. "I didn't ask you to save me."

Ungrateful, too. He had a point, yeah, but I wasn't about to concede that.

"Right. So… I guess you could spend the night at my place?" I'm not often so trusting around strangers, but it was late and I wanted my bed and where else am I supposed to dump his sorry butt? Is there even a protocol for this kind of situation? "We'll sort this out first thing tomorrow."

He smiled. I think. A slight lift to his mouth, a little squinting of the eye. It's hard to tell, with a face like that—like a statue, I mean. He could as easily have been glaring at me with murderous intent. "It doesn't really matter to me."

"Of course not." The traffic began to move. Hallelujah. "I'm Angela, by the way."

He smoothed moist hair away from his face with impeccable fingertips. Incredible (and annoying) how he could exude such grandeur in a little gesture: I mean, I'm a girl, how come I can't do that? And—_munching jellywafers_, he was ignoring me!

"Hey," I said.

He didn't answer. He was staring at something infinitely more interesting outside the window. You know, the darkness, sour-smelling bikers, other cars passing by. Or maybe he was staring at his own reflection, who knew.

My money's on the reflection.

"Hey," I said again, louder this time.

Still no answer.

The nerve.

"Hey!" I poked him in the cheek. It was either that or stick my finger up his pretty nose.

I chose the lesser evil. I'm such a good person.

"What?" he snapped. Oh, and he had the grace to look annoyed. He even wore that conceited hauteur expression, as if he had stepped in a pile of dog turd.

A me-shaped dog turd.

"I said I'm Angela."

He gave this exaggerated eye-roll and a matching sigh. Really. _Rich kids_. Even I don't sigh like that. "I know," he said, turning back to the window. "I heard you the first time."

Why, the pompous little son of a silver-backed donkey-humping gorilla. I started to think I should have stuck my finger up his nose instead.

I had to remind myself that this guy had just tried to kill himself and I should be good and kind and caring, and so I bit my oft-bitten tongue and prayed for a fresh supply of patience. Preferably decaf.

"You know," I said through gritted teeth, "I don't know how your people do it, but usually, when someone tells you their name, you tell them yours."

He looked at me like—well, I don't know what that look was like. Oh, I'm terribly sorry, excuse me, I'm not a gaze connoisseur, I can't read stares. I'm not gonna say there was a glint of disgust or a flicker of affection in there, because disgust doesn't glint in anyone's eyes, and affection doesn't flicker, and also because it wasn't any of that. I think. All I know is that it wasn't so vacant anymore. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, or what that stare was for, but that's what he did: he stared. Just for a second. Or two.

I bet he had a funny name and he was afraid I'd laugh at it. I told him this. To assuage his theoretical fear, you know. Also to tease him.

"Gill," he said finally. He turned to the window again.

That was a funny name, but not so much that it warranted laughing. Paranoid much.

"See?" We were out of the bridge now, and out of the bottleneck. Again, hallelujah. Smooth sailing from here. "Was that so hard, huh, _Gill_?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand waving. "Don't—don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Both hands waving now. "Like _that_. What you just did. Like you're molesting it with your tongue."

I couldn't help it; I laughed. A name-molester, that's me. I grope names for the heck of it, I feel up their jiggling letters, I squeeze their plump consonants. Holy pig in a bellybutton sandwich, what am I saying? _Officer, this woman has been caught harassing names all over the city. One name claims she sprinkled something in its drink._

Oh, man. Do I need some shut-eye.

As I had predicted, the drive went smoothly from there. And by smoothly, I mean in semi-awkward silence.

Gill wasn't inclined to talk, after I stopped molesting his name. Which I understood, since, you know. Messed up and all that. Figured he needed the space. Clear his head out. I wanted to help him, I really did, but how? Talking? I wouldn't trust me to talk to someone so emotionally fragile. I'm a verbal jackhammer. I left him to his own devices: he wouldn't try anything funny with me there.

I tried fiddling with the radio a bit, but still nothing good: _…starships were meant to fly-y-y-y. _Nope._ Coming up next—why your husband is cheating on you. _No._ Dr. Love on air, here to remedy the sicknesses of the heart. _Nuh-uh._ Typhoon victims still in need of…_

Yep. Boring drive.

"Why are you wearing that?"

"Wha—?" Very eloquent, Angela. In my defense, though, I didn't expect him to talk, much less ask me why I'm wearing my clothes. Seriously, who does that?

Rich people. Rich people do.

"That," he said, giving a pointed glance at my shirt. "Why do you wear it?"

"Um." I chanced a cursory peek down my front. Okay, so maybe the shirt was gloriously stained and rumpled and ponged with oil-smell, but it was passable. Didn't bear being snidely glared at. In my humble opinion. "It's my uniform? I work at a fast-food?"

"It's ugly." A slender pinky worried the outer corner of his eye. "Clashes with your hair."

Yep. Boring drive.

* * *

We made it to the flat in once piece, in any case. Allow me to explain what 'in one piece' means in three simple words: air-dried, bedraggled, and sullen.

Well, Gill was sullen. Me, I was more annoyed. The 'clashes with your hair' comment still stung a little.

I flipped the light switch on and ta-da: my cramped apartment in all its peeling-wallpaper glory, smelling suspiciously of day-old pizzas. I tried to remember the last time I had anyone over. (Three years ago, if you're interested, and it was the plumber.) It looked as if I'd moved in ages ago and stopped unpacking halfway through. Behind me, Gill said nothing. We were both so quiet, I swear you could hear dust bunnies mating under the carpet.

"Shut up, Gill."

He actually _laughed_ at that. Man, I'm good at this cheering-up thing. "I didn't say anything," he said.

As soon as we got through the door, I shucked my shoes off and tossed my bag on the couch. I probably shouldn't mention the dust cloud that poofed up when I did that, but since I've already mentioned it without meaning to, I won't bring it up again. Um. I'm a busy person, okay? I don't have time to clean.

Anyway.

Gill was standing in the living room, peering this way and that, looking every bit like a misplaced high-class gent. He took inventory of all the stuff I owned, or rather, the stuff I did not own. A sofa, two mismatched easy chairs, a wobbly coffee table that doubles as footstool. My beloved CRT TV with a bent antenna. Oh, and that cute little cow-shaped radio—remind me to change the batteries soon. And… yeah, that's pretty much it.

Some might call my place Spartan. I like to call it minimalist.

People like Gill would call it recently robbed.

"There are worse places to live in." I flopped down on the couch and started pulling my socks off. "Bathroom's over there. Got soap and shampoo and some extra towels—nope, nothing else, no moisturizers and fancy stuff, deal with it, big guy. There's, um, something in the fridge. I think. And I have, uh, instant coffee—"

"Instant?" I could hear the repulsed scrunch in his nose. He made it pretty audible.

"I make do, m'kay?" I went into the bedroom to retrieve spare blankets. Also to dispose of my balled-up socks. And to rifle through the dresser for loose clothing that would hopefully fit Gill. A quick glance backward: He was still standing there, glaring at the ceiling. Bastard didn't even sit himself down. Afraid of catching sofa germs, Mr. Prosperous? Scared of a little dust?

Fine. A lot of dust.

I flung the blanket at him. Bright pink, with flowers and butterflies, you know, to cheer him up. (I'd grabbed it at random, I swear.) Miracle of miracles, he actually caught it. I tossed the clothes next. These he caught again, without much effort: I think he tried not to catch them, and he was disappointed that he did. "You take the couch," I said. "I'm not giving you my bed."

He made a delicate sound in his throat that probably translates to 'as if.' In posh-people-speak, that is. "I'd rather sleep on the floor," he said. Well, that confirms it.

"Yeah, lucky me."

I freshened up in ten minutes, washed off whatever needed to be washed off, and almost succeeded in forgetting that I had a suicidal male adult (who was probably rich) busy getting misplaced in my living room. I decided to check up on him, just in case. Call me a softie, but I wanted to make him as comfy as possible. Make him feel at home, you know? Also, I figured he'd want to take a turn with the shower.

I peeked into the living room and there he was, jacket-less, perched awkwardly on the couch's armrest, sniffing and prodding the blanket with undue suspicion.

Ugh. Rich kids.

* * *

I woke up a mere hour after I fell asleep. Which was weird, since I usually sleep like a drugged log. Twenty bucks says it's because of the stranger in my living room.

I relieved myself in the bathroom, drank myself a glass of water, and tiptoed over to the heap on the couch. The lights were off, so it was dark. Hurrah, throw the confetti, I have a grasp of the obvious, give me a medal. Anyway. He wasn't snoring. I couldn't tell if he was sleeping or pretending to sleep.

Or dead.

I wondered where I could borrow a shovel.

"You're being creepy."

Well, that ruled out the 'dead' possibility. Still, I made a mental note to ask around for rentable shovels.

I padded over to the light switch and flipped it on. He sat up, blinking in the light, rubbing a knuckle in his eye. The blanket slid to the floor. "Why are you still awake?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"Uncomfortable?"

"Lucky guess," he grumbled. "Look, just leave me alone, please. I just have a lot on my mind right now."

I tried not to sympathize, I really did, but I guess I'm softer than I think I am. I've slept on my couch before, and although it was lumpy, it wasn't much different from sleeping on my bed: I was used to discomfort. But Gill wasn't.

"Get up," I said, nudging his shin with my foot. "You take the bed. I'll sleep here."

He gave me that look again. You know, the one I couldn't decipher? Yeah, that one. Although it's less sharp now, a little less probing: bet it had something to do with the mussed hair and semicircles under his eyes. And the adorable criss-crossing blanket-imprint on his cheek.

"Go on." I nudged him again. "I want to sleep too, you know."

He opened his mouth, got as far as 'uh,' closed it. Weighing options in his mind, most likely. He gave me a firm nod, picked himself up from the couch, and trundled to the bedroom. I tried not to laugh at the powder-blue sweatpants that ended a good three inches above his ankle.

Well, it's you and me now, couch. I retrieved the pinkly garish blanket off the floor and gave it a good dusting-off.

"Angela."

Huh. Gill was still standing there, by the bedroom door. I hoped he had a change of heart and decided he wanted to be manly enough to take the couch anyway and give me back my bed. Fat chance, but a girl could dream.

"I…" He looked off to the side, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "I don't think I've thanked you for saving my life. So." He wore the expression of someone choking on a lump of meat, trying to spit it out. I almost ran over to him to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but I stayed put. I had to hear this one. "…Thank you."

Good heavens, he can express gratitude! Mark your calendars, people.

I smiled. It was a pretty sincere smile for a pretty sincere thanks. "You're welcome."

And with a final nod, he disappeared into the bedroom. I'd never tell him this, but it felt good to help someone, even if that someone was Gill.

Too bad it wouldn't feel so good in the morning: the couch was utterly, utterly lumpy.

* * *

_1. Yeah, I know. The plot's as clichéd as the opening sentence. Girl saves boy, they fall in love, yadda yadda yadda. Slap my wrist and call it a day._

_2. This is a bit experimental for me. Trying to lean away from ultra-poetic angst-ridden heavy-plotless stuff for a while._

_3. I like dogs._

_4. I rarely—fine, never—write anything plot-driven, so I feel kinda lost. Feedback will be much appreciated. Seriously. Spot anything bad in the story? Tell me! Please. I'll, um, give you a free internet hug?_

_5. Thanks so much for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"_And meanwhile time goes about its immemorial work of making everyone look, and feel, like shit."_

_— Martin Amis, _London Fields

* * *

"Gill?"

Some people just make mornings better. I know, hard to believe, right? But it's true. I don't know how they do it. A winning smile, a toss of their head, a jolly giggle, and bam: sunshine, butterflies, and rainbows, baby. It's like magic.

These people I'm talking about, they're a national treasure. They're rarer than men who put toilet seats down. They're so rare, finicky customers try to send them back to the kitchen on porcelain plates. These people are a gift from the gods.

And Gill was not one of these people.

"Gill."

I swear the sky had been a vibrant blue when I woke up. When I entered the bedroom, it became a grumpy shade of gray so bleak that it rivaled my future. Wonder why. If you looked hard enough, you could just make out the splendor of the collective cosmos sticking its tongue out at mankind, and maybe even detect a discreet middle-finger-shaped cloud hidden among the fluffballs. I could almost hear choirs of death angels heralding the end of times.

Or it could have been Gill snoring.

…nope, definitely death angels.

"Gi-i-i-i-i-ll…"

It's a bit adorable, if it wasn't so infuriating. Gill was nestled inside the blanket, curled up like a suicidal caterpillar waiting to metamorphose into a beautiful, dainty, still suicidal butterfly. (Shut up, I'm not good with similes.) All I could see of him was the messy mop of hair peeking out of the blanket and the ladylike toes curled by the foot of the bed. Pedicured—can you believe it?

"Gill!"

He stirred. Finally. I gave him a poke for a good measure.

Maybe poking's my signature move.

"Mrrrmphrgh," he said. Now, I'm not an expert on posh-people-speak, but I'm pretty sure 'Mrrmphrgh' is the universal mumble for 'Five more minutes.' It could also mean 'I can't talk with all these cotton in my mouth, you goddamn dentist,' but given the dentist-less situation, I'd say it meant the former.

I bent over him and said, as sweetly as I could, "Not dead yet, Sunshine?"

From within the husk of his blanket-cocoon, Gill scowled.

Sure, it wasn't the best greeting to welcome someone with first thing in the morning—it ranks down there between 'What was I thinking last night?' and 'Don't freak out, but there's an extra head on your neck.' (And yes, I've heard of the phrase 'Good morning,' believe it or not.) But, I'm not a morning person. There's no right side to my bed. Mornings make me cranky: I don't like thinking of others' feelings so early in the day.

Wait, scratch that. I don't like thinking of _anything_ so early in the day.

That's a perfectly legitimate reason, thank you very much.

"Go away." He tried to burrow his way deeper into his shell. Cocoon. Whatever he'd made of the blanket.

"Sorry, brother, no can do. We have stuff to sort out." I yanked the blanket away from him with possibly more force than necessary. But I did it with good intentions. I swear I never meant for him to tumble face first onto the floor. I also swear I didn't mean to laugh at his girlish yelp of utter surprise.

"I hate you." Listlessly, he ended his brief acquaintance with the carpet and dusted himself off. There was a bit of dried drool on his cheek, but he didn't need to know that. Yet. "Can't you ever do anything normally?"

"You mean that wasn't normal?"

He yawned against a fist. And ignored me. Gill's signature move #2: ignore Angela when she's being annoying.

It's not very effective.

Angela's signature move #2: keep talking.

"Gill, I'm brunette."

He gave me a blank stare. The kind of stare that sucks you into the absolute darkness of the void. The kind of stare that's so bereft of human emotion, it makes Kristen Stewart weep with envy. It was so unfeeling, it makes blocks of ice shiver. "You don't say," he said.

"Exactly. I'm brunette. How the heck can _anything_ clash with my hair?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. "You're still going on about that?"

I nodded.

He let go of his nose and rubbed the back of his head. "Fine. Look, I didn't mean it, okay? I was being snippy. Forget it."

I wasn't satisfied, but it's cool, man. That was as close as he would get to saying sorry. Being the kind, caring soul I am, I used all my powers of subtlety and changed the subject.

"There's some cereal if you're hungry."

He scoffed. "No thank you."

Thunder rumbled. Maybe it's going to rain? Just my luck; the collective cosmos was being a jerk.

Oh, wait, that wasn't thunder; that was Gill's stomach. Heh. He had the decency to look sheepish at that. Again, I swear on my reputation as a kindhearted soul that I absolutely did not mean to laugh. But I did. I'm only human, after all.

* * *

"So what now?"

"Don't ask me."

We ate cereal on the couch, with the TV turned to the news channel. I wanted to watch a rerun of Wilfred. Gill wanted to watch a bunch of old geezers in suits talking business to each other. How boring, right? Gill was such a square. Probably jerks off to stock exchange rates. I bet his version of dirty talking goes something like this: _I'm gonna balance your checkbook so hard you're gonna exceed your credit limit, baby. You like that, huh? I'll analyze your figures six ways to Sunday._

…I did _not_ just think of Gill talking dirty. I would never do such a thing. You imagined that part yourself, you dirty pervert.

Um, moving on.

That's how we ended up watching the news channel.

"You can't stay here forever, you know," I said, letting a spoonful of milk trickle back into the bowl. "Don't you have a friend whose fancy pad you could crash?"

He chewed his cereal and eyed the middle-aged reporter on the screen. "What's with your TV?"

Gah, rich kids notice _everything_. You see, my beloved telly is a day short of being antique, and it's a little worse for the wear. The top half of the screen is longer than the lower half, so we watched stretchy-torsoed burglars pattering around on squat legs. During close-ups, news anchors with gigantic foreheads and scrunched faces.

Gill found it amusing.

"Stop changing the subject and answer the question." I waved the spoon around. "You have to go before the day's over."

"They look like dwarves."

"Gill—"

"I think it has something to do with the picture tube. Have you tried calling a technician?"

"Gill!"

He went silent at that, and he made this face that's completely impassive but somehow conveyed sadness. Confusing things, emotions. It's weird, but at that moment I felt like… I don't know, giving him a hug? Like he was an abandoned puppy and I just had to do _something_ to make him feel better. Know what I mean?

There's a word I'm looking for… ah, yeah, pity. He wouldn't want that, so I tried not to show it to him.

"I don't have anyone I consider a friend," he said quietly, eyes on the screen.

I had a plethora of witty comebacks to that, like 'I can see why,' but I held my tongue. It didn't seem appropriate. I may be crude at the best of times, but if there's one thing I'm not, it's crude.

That made so much more sense in my head. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I have manners, too, you know.

"Home?" I asked, just as quietly.

He shook his head. "I'd rather not go home."

"But Gill… you're suicidal and most likely depressed. You can't—I can't keep you here. I wouldn't know what to do with you. You need serious professional attention."

No answer.

"If you stay, you'd have to eat cornflakes forever."

Still no answer. I tried a different track.

"When I found you on the bridge, you didn't have a car. Did you walk all the way there?"

He shrugged. "I jacked a bike." He said this as if he was asking for a restaurant bill. Like it was the most regular thing in the world. Like—like he hadn't just stolen a bike. Ugh, rich kids.

"Huh. I didn't see a bike."

"I tossed it in the river."

_Ho-lee crap_. So it wasn't a pen he'd dropped. Any more of this and my head was going to explode. Well, not really. But the less detail I was privy to, the better. Lesson learned: Don't ask too many questions.

"Why did you want to kill yourself?" I asked.

Lesson effectively unlearned.

Don't look at me like that. You would've asked the same thing if you were in my place. Besides, I was genuinely curious, and it'd probably help if he could talk to someone about his feelings. Not that he had feelings. Okay, that was mean.

Anyway.

He shrugged. It took another moment for him to speak. "Have you ever felt like…" He frowned, and lightly pressed a fingertip to his eyelid. "Like nothing matters anymore?"

What could I say to something like that? What could anyone say? 'No, I've never felt like that, what a stupid thing to feel.' Might as well stab him with a knife. He needed help, maybe not specifically _my_ help, but if I were the one to give him that then so be it. I wanted to help him. But holy waffles, how? I mean, it's not every day that I take a depressed person home.

"Gill…" Awesome. I'm pretty sure that helped him a lot. Way to go, Angela.

"Never mind. I'm fine now."

Maya once told me that when people tell you they're fine, they're usually lying. I knew Gill was lying. No fine person would attempt to jump off a bridge and refuse to go home for some reason.

On one hand, I really couldn't keep him here. I couldn't even afford a pet; how would you expect me to feed a full-grown man? (Incidentally, what does a full-grown man eat?) There were electric bills and water bills and the monumental question of sleeping arrangement. Not to mention the fact that he was a complete stranger.

Nope, him staying here was out of the question.

On the other, I refused to leave him alone. What he had tried once, he could try again. I wasn't about to take that chance. I could try phoning 911—wait, why didn't I think of that earlier? Or I could drive him to the hospital. Do hospitals deal with this kind of thing? Alternatively, should I call a family member, a friend, someone who actually knows him?

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I did something I only do when I'm alone and thinking too hard.

I farted.

It was one of those deep, drawn-out, reverberating trumpet-honk farts that sputter at the end. Glorious. I would've been proud of it if I didn't suddenly realize that Gill was sitting _right next to me_.

I don't even know how I forgot he was there. I mean, it was _his_ dilemma I was thinking of. I could see him in my peripheral vision, for waffles' sake. I was talking to him not a minute ago! Crap. I wished the ground would just open up, chew me into little non-farting pieces, and swallow me.

Stiffly, I turned to Gill.

He was looking at me with a combination of disgust and disbelief. Like the lovechild of 'Ew' and 'Holy crap, women can fart?'

"I actually _felt_ that," he said evenly.

Remember what I said about people who make mornings better?

No, Gill was not one of those people.

* * *

There's something about hospitals that put me at ease.

No, wait, hear me out. I know most people don't like hospitals. But I'm not most people. I find the sterile atmosphere becalming. The white walls, white floors, the smell of antiseptic in the air. The clack-clack-clack of high heels on the tiles. The air-conditioning unit that actually works, the free coffee. What's not to like?

I mean, aside from the line of sick people on the front desk and the occasional patient hurriedly wheeled to the emergency room. Other than that, it's almost paradise.

The glower on Gill's face begged to differ.

"Yes?" The receptionist said, arching a groomed eyebrow.

"Um." I cleared my throat and motioned towards Gill. "I found this guy about to jump off a bridge last night…"

She took one glance at him and her eyes bulged right away. I was about to make a wisecrack about Gill's face when the woman squeaked, "M-Mr. Hamilton?"

I turned to Gill, surprised. Why would a hospital receptionist recognize him, of all people? Then I remembered what she called him…

"Mr. Hamilton?" I looked from the receptionist (who was doing a respectable impression of a goldfish) to Gill (who was being, well, Gill) to the receptionist (who was… forget it). "Wait." I was starting to realize what was going on, and I didn't like it one bit. "Hamilton? Gill Hamilton?"

"Yes," said Gill Hamilton, "that's me."

Words. There were none.

Gill was a common name. How was I supposed to know that the Gill I as good as adopted was the same Gill that just happened to be the mayor's son?

The mayor's son—the mayor's freaking son—had been about to jump off a bridge and I'd rescued him and made him stay a night in my dingy apartment. I sassed him front to back and side to side. I made him wear my old sweatpants. I introduced him to my floor. _I farted in his face._

Well, maybe not in his face, but let's not split hairs.

I know what you're thinking. So he's the mayor's son, whoop, what's the big deal, right? The thing is, the Hamiltons are influential. Like, really, really influential. The old money kind, you know. They're a long line of politicians, businessmen, socialites. The kind of people who grin from the front cover of posh magazines. Pretty much up there with the President.

Maybe I'm exaggerating about that last one. But still.

The word 'elite' comes to mind.

Gill pressed a finger under my chin and closed my mouth. "You'll catch flies," he explained.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I managed to say. I mean yell. Yep, that was definitely a yell: a passing nurse paused, decided we were not worth his time, and walked away.

"Don't yell at him," the receptionist said.

"Don't yell at her," Gill snapped.

"Don't tell her not to yell at me," I said. "You're Gill Hamilton!"

He rolled his mayor's-son eyes. "Yes, that's the name on my birth certificate."

"Why didn't you at least tell me?"

At this point he seemed sincerely exhausted: his shoulders slumped, his eyes avoided mine. "It wasn't important."

The receptionist had paged a nurse while Gill and I were arguing. Two of them arrived presently, and in a flurry of movement and stolid attempts at ignoring me, Gill was escorted somewhere else. Didn't even look back, the ungrateful son of a constipated llama. I was asked a few questions: Where did I find him, Did he act normally when I took him home, Did he display a tendency to talk about death, Have I notified his immediate family.

I answered the questions in all honesty. I forgot to ask the nurses where they were taking him, though. Probably the ER. But whatever, right? These people were experts. I trusted them to know what they were doing.

My job was done. Give me a pat on the back.

"I contacted the mayor's office." Eh, it was Miss Grumpy giving me the evil eye. "He'll be glad to know that his son is safe."

"Of course. Will he be all right now?"

I already mentioned that I'm not a gaze connoisseur, but I'm pretty sure the look she gave me was meant to severely injure, if not to kill. "This is a hospital, isn't it? We'll run a psychological evaluation on him and send him home. He'll be put under surveillance 24/7." She put on a show of inspecting her nails. "Anyway, the next time you find a jumper, either call 911 or drive straight to the emergency room. Especially if the jumper is someone of note."

"I didn't know who he was!"

"How could you not recognize the mayor's son?"

"How should I? He's not _the_ mayor. And he doesn't look like the mayor."

She ignored me. I was rapidly becoming an expert at being ignored. I might have to put that in my resume sometime soon.

I hung around for a few more minutes, wondering what had become of Gill. A moment later the front doors slid open and a group of important-looking people swarmed in, preceded by a cloud of tasteful perfume. Don't ask me what made them important-looking. It could've been the clothes, or the pince-nez on that guy, or holy cow, is that a real diamond? Still betting on the posture, though; posture does wonders. Anyway, like Gill, they looked like opera-goers. And—oh. My. Burrito.

The mayor was with them.

And there I was without a pen and paper. Actually, screw the paper; I could ask him to sign my wrist. Don't scoff at me; the Hamiltons are pretty much local celebrities in these parts.

We're weird people.

So these were Gill's crowd, after all. You know, the guys from up there on the social ladder, looking down at the world with their pretty noses. Kind of intimidating, let me tell you. I swear I shrunk into my clothes a few inches.

Well, now that his father was here, I figured Gill wouldn't need me anymore. He was obviously in good hands at that point.

I went to work after that, did my usual nine-to-five thing, and drove back home. I figured the whole business with Gill was pretty much wrapped up. He was out of my hair, my hands were clean, and no one died. No loose ends there: everything was neat and dandy; my life was back to normal.

I flopped down on my sofa and switched the TV on. It was then that I realized there was something dark draped over the back of the couch.

He'd left his awesome jacket. Score.

* * *

_1. Please don't take this fic seriously. I'm pretty sure that's not how hospitals work, but let's just pretend it is, for my sake._

_2. The plot. It is missing._

_3. I'm not sure whether Hamilton is a surname or if it's actually the mayor's given name. But I've seen stories where it's a surname, making Gill's full name Gill Hamilton, and I decided to go along with that because I'm so original. Also, I don't hate Kristen Stewart. It's never cool to hate anyone. Except Justin Bieber. I heard it's cool to hate that guy._

_4. The quotes I put at the beginning of each chapter are just random lines from books I've read. They don't really have anything to do with the story. I just want to seem profound and stuff. Don't judge meeeee._

_5. I don't actually watch Wilfred, but it was the first thing that popped up in my mind. I took that as a sign from the heavens._

_6. Thank you so much, you lovely people! I'm thrilled about the support this story's getting. Thanks so much, guys. Free internet cookies for everyone! Baked 'em meself._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

_"It's not love or anything, but I think I like you, too."_

— _Chuck Palahniuk, _Fight Club

* * *

The first rule of Brass Bar is you don't talk about Brass Bar.

No, just kidding. I just wanted to sound awesome and stuff. I probably should've gone with the dark-and-stormy-night gig again, but it wasn't dark and it wasn't stormy, so there.

To be honest, Brass Bar is a misnomer. You can't imagine the sheer amount of people walking in and searching for an actual bar. Surprise, surprise: no bars here, except maybe for granola bars—an offering most customers turn down, to my astonishment.

This is the place where youthful dreams come to die. Well, no. They come here to eat grub, stare at the wall, and ponder on what they're doing with their lives. Deep psychological issues, man. You'd be amazed at how many people walk out of here with newly acquired existential crises and a haunted expression on their faces.

Hayden wants this joint to be a chic sort of diner, a new-age kind of deal. Me, I think it's just a glorified fast-food.

It's frequented by people who live on a healthy diet of free-range meat, organic eggs, and creative despair. Mostly unemployed art grads and hipsters. (You've probably never heard of them.) You know, the edgy, laid-back sort that hangs out at quaint coffee shops and writes totally non-pretentious poetry on napkins.

It's a proletarian paradise, this place.

I mean, take a look at the staff. We're a motley freakshow of a pseudo-family in varying degrees of being broke. It's almost like a competition. First off, there's a walking, talking bottomless pit who'd eat anything that doesn't move—we like to call her Maya. Then there's this guy who May Or May Not Be Blond And-Slash-Or May Or May Not Be Ginger, But What The Hell, He Wears Hairpins. Fun fact: that's his actual title. We call him Chase because his title's a mouthful. Also because Chase is his name. Then there's Kathy, who's pretty much normal except for… actually, Kathy's pretty much normal.

And, of course, there's yours truly. That's me.

You'd take one look at me and think, "Wow, what an ordinary person."

And you'd be right. That's the thing: I'm so extraordinarily ordinary, my ordinariness is extraordinary.

And that, my friends, makes sense.

Anyway, I wasn't lying when I said there's a rule here that everyone follows, even boss-man Hayden himself.

When Chase is angry, stay the fudge away from him.

I mean it. Breaking this rule is extremely unhealthy. Chase can be snarky even when he's happy. When he's not… well, let's just say he's gonna make you ooze insecurity out of your pores. He'll pick you apart, from your imitation lip gloss to your thrift-store shoes. That tongue of his, it's Satan incarnate, sharpened with the blazing wrath of a thousand unpaid, coffee-depraved interns.

Rumor has it that he's made Owen cry several times. The mental picture alone is almost enough to make _me _cry.

So when I was one day met with a glare that said _Die _instead of the usual _Get horribly maimed_, I gave Chase a berth wider than the gap between Bo's front teeth. Even Maya was cowed, and that's saying something.

"What's up with him?" I whispered to Kathy, after the kitchen door slammed closed. "He's moodier than usual."

Kathy shrugged, although she looked worried. "Could be anything," she said. "Just stay away from him, all right?"

"No need to tell me."

The usual skinny-jeaned, tattooed, fedora-wearing crowd was present. From a nearby table I overheard a drawling conversation about "going hardcore" and "quitting caffeine altogether." Very fitting topic in a diner. And then there's something about this group of musicians that's "so underground, their albums aren't even pirated."

I was saved from hearing more when a customer walked in, looked around as though surprised to find himself here, and drifted over to one of the empty tables.

Ah, Toby. Now there's an odd one. He just sort of floats around in a daze with no purpose whatsoever. Like a seahorse on land. Whenever he walks in here, I always think it's because the wind blew him this way, and he simply goes "I'm already here, might as well eat."

I don't think he ever does anything on purpose.

Sometimes he even comes here more than twice in one day, like he's forgotten he's already came by earlier. Sometimes, though, he doesn't come in an entire month, and when he finally does come, he talks to me about month-old stuff as if they happened yesterday. He's weird like that.

"Yo, Toby," I said, approaching him. God, that smile. It's like his default expression or something.

"Evening," he said. "You look well."

"Thanks." I poised the pen on the notepad. "Anything I can get you?"

"The usual."

Toby's a regular customer, as far as _regular_ goes with him, but he always orders something different every time. In short, there's no "usual" for him. It's a joke between us that stopped being funny after the second time. Knowing Toby, it's possible that each time he eats here, he forgets he's already used that one on me.

And I was not amused.

I gave him my coldest, iciest, most evil stare. It was pretty scary, if I do say so myself. On the scale of corgi puppies to invisible Lego pieces, I'd say it ranked between the Darth Vader – Vegan Bacon range.

Too bad Toby wasn't the least bit intimidated. I wasn't really surprised, with his eyes being little more than slits. If he tries to open them anytime soon, I bet he'd be shocked to find that he can actually see.

"Grilled cheese and a soda," he said.

"That all?"

"That's all."

One good thing about Toby: he never orders anything complicated. I nodded, gave him a smile (which he probably didn't see) and sauntered away to deliver the order slip to hell. I mean kitchen.

Wait, no, I meant hell.

I took a deep breath and faced the kitchen door. The muffled clanging of pots and pans and an angry "Damn it!" issued from within.

Yep, that sounded like hell all right.

You can do this, I thought. Steel. I am steel. Just walk in, hand over the order slip, walk out. Hell yeah. Easy peasy. No problem. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Fear is for the weak. Necessity is the mother of invention. Time is gold. Squeaky wheel gets the grease…

Just when I was about to use up my repertoire of idioms, the door burst open and regurgitated a teary-eyed Maya. She bolted past me, loped straight to the entrance and out into the night.

A tense hush settled over the diner. And then: "I was already storming out of doors before it was cool."

_Hipsters_.

All conversation resumed like nothing had happened. I exchanged a glance with Kathy, who promptly stopped fiddling with the cash register and went after Maya. Which meant I was left to deal with the devil.

I mean Chase.

No, wait, I meant the devil.

Ugh. Chase and Maya: they're like an old married couple. They even fight like one. I mean, it's pretty sweet when Maya's not stuffing her face silly with non-living things, and Chase isn't emulating a menopausal granny, but they're like damn teenagers. Old married teenagers. Love-hate and all that.

Everybody knows there's something going on between them. Everybody, that is, except the two of them. They just haven't received the memo yet.

I turned back to the kitchen door and its hidden wonders, took another deep breath—and no, I did not stall again. I already ran out of idioms. Before I could lose my nerve, I straightened up, threw my shoulders back, held my chin high, and strode in.

I'm brave, I'm cool, I'm strong.

The smell of stew and smoldering frustration hit me in the face.

Chase was standing with his back to me, stirring something bubbling on the stove. "Get out," he spat, without even turning around.

I bravely wilted.

"Um." With unmistakable coolness, I cleared my throat and choked on my own saliva. "Ack. Ahem."

"Get _out_."

"Uh, no." I walked over to him with heroically trembling knees. "I saw Maya. What did you do this time?" His shoulders stiffened. Ooh, hit a nerve there. "Oh, and someone wants grilled cheese and a soda." I showed him the order slip. He glared at it like he was a liberal and it was a conservative.

"I told her the truth. She's useless." He turned the heat down; the stew simmered. "Not my fault if she can't take it."

"You're more venomous than usual, though."

He readjusted a hairpin. "Fuck off."

Okay, so that was the condensed version: what he actually said had a lot more f's in it. I just thought I'd spare you the horror. Feel free to admire my kindness.

"Hey, now. We're all good friends here, right?" He gave me a withering stare. "Okay, close acquaintances, then. Talking might help, you know? And here's a pair of willing ears, right here."

A little voice at the back of my head kept telling me that I'd caught something from Gill and I was now suicidal. Or that my common sense had fled in fear. Or that I harbored a secret masochistic streak. Either way, I was probably going to die before my shift ended.

Meanwhile, Chase was inside his head, brooding. Holy potatoes, he was actually considering my offer! Gosh. What is it about me that makes people open up? Is it my indisputable beauty, or my brilliant wit, or my never-ending kindness? Or is it my legendary humility?

After a long internal monologue, Chase shrugged. "Hell," he said. "Even if you spread it around, nobody'd believe you anyway."

Or that. It could be that.

"I…" Chase hesitated. He ran a hand through his hair and disturbed his hairpins; a few of them fell out. He ignored them. "Listen. Don't tell anyone about this, understand?"

"Sure," I said. "And nobody would believe me anyway."

"I was going to ask Maya out on a date."

The shrill, girlish shriek that followed was not mine. It was—um, Chase imagined it. So did the customers outside. They all imagined it simultaneously. I mean, that's more plausible than the idea that I actually shrieked girlishly, right?

…right?

"Shh!" Chase hissed, clapping his hand to my mouth. "What the hell, Angela?"

I pried his fingers off my face. Gah. They smelled like onions. "You asked her out? So what happened? Why did she run off crying? You didn't…" I gasped. "You didn't propose to her, did you?"

"…The fuck?" It would've been funny if—hell, it _was_ funny. His expression mirrored those two words perfectly. "_Women,_" he muttered."No, I didn't propose to her. The entire thing failed."

"What? Why? How?"

"Calm down." He turned back to the stew and gave it a stir. "I ordered roses but the clerk mixed it up. The idiot. Maya received funeral flowers."

You cannot imagine how hard it was for me not to laugh. You _cannot_ imagine.

"Wow," I said. I couldn't say anything more without bursting into a fit of giggles. I may have a masochistic streak but I didn't want to die yet. I mean, this is Chase we're talking about. Chase, Mr. Rule #1? Treading on eggshells here.

"Good thing there wasn't a card or anything. She didn't know it was from me."

"Oh, that's lucky."

"Yeah." He crossed his arms and leaned a hip on the counter. "Then I'm being kicked out of my apartment, so I had to cancel my reservation at this classy restaurant downtown. _Le Cercle_? _Le Curieux_? Something French, I forgot the name."

"_Omelet du fromage_?"

Chase ignored my suggestion. "So there you go. I've been pretty frustrated these days. Stressed out and all that shit."

"And you took it out on Maya."

"…Yeah."

"Real wise, guy. At this rate you're gonna be married sometime tomorrow." I bent down to pick a hairpin from the floor. He snatched it from me as soon as I straightened up. "I'm pretty sure she'd appreciate a decent home-cooked meal. And listen: when I said we're all friends here, I meant it. You can, um, borrow my car if you like. You know, for apartment hunting?"

He snorted. "What, that rust bucket?"

"At least I have a car! You just have a bike."

"Not anymore."

I did a double take. "Say _what_?"

"Got stolen a couple of days ago." He lazily rubbed a knuckle in his eye as though the bike didn't worry him anymore. Maybe it really didn't, who knew. "Crummy week."

At this point, there were two thoughts running around in my head. The first was that plenty of people get their bikes stolen on a daily basis. It's almost expected, to be honest. You leave your bike there, turn around for a sec, and voila, magic, your bike's gone.

And the second? Well, the second thought was that it's a small, small world after all.

Kathy poked her head through the kitchen doorway. "Um, guys? There's a guy here asking after his grilled cheese…"

* * *

I'd never spared Gill a moment's thought before Chase had mentioned his bike. To me, our brief acquaintance was as good as dead—sorry, bad choice of word. As good as something that's not alive anymore.

That's not much better, is it?

Okay, from the top: To me, our brief acquaintance was a closed coffin.

…Never mind.

Point is, I never expected to see Gill again, except on the news. And maybe on the obituary.

So imagine my utter surprise when I answered a knock on my door and opened it to find Gill Hamilton himself, in flesh, on my doorstep.

"M-Mr. Hamilton," I stammered smoothly. "Fancy seeing you here."

He rolled his Hamilton™ eyes heavenward. "Don't start with that."

He seemed unfazed by my discomfort, in any case. Then again, he must've been used to discomfiting people by now, him being a Hamilton and all. The way he stood, you'd think he was the king of all doorways—you know, like he had every legal right to loiter about in other people's doors without a need for reason.

Outwardly, I was shaken. Inwardly, though, I was also shaken. The Gill I remembered had been damp, haggard, easy to bully, and wore an overall air of defeat that plead _Kick me_. The Gill standing in front of me was straight-backed, self-assured, dressed in a suit that would probably pay my rent for a year. He was a monocle short of saying _I can buy you, your friends, and your soul._

And all through that I was thinking, _Please don't be here for the jacket. Please don't be here for the jacket. _I was planning to sell it, or pawn it, at the very least. If my mind had fingers, they would've been crossed, along with my toes.

"I'm here for the jacket."

Well, bummer.

"Sure."

I was about to retrieve the jacket from the couch (yep, it was still draped there) when he shouldered his way in. Forget king of all doorways; this guy's the duke of trespassing.

"Nice to see you're keeping up with the cleaning," he said.

"For someone who's supposed to be depressed, you're very talkative." I rolled his jacket into a wad and flung it at him. He caught it with one hand. Déjà vu much? "So what's new with you?"

He went ahead and sat on the couch uninvited. Funny how a few days ago he had been so unwilling even to touch it. I sat down next to him. "I have to meet my psychiatrist three times a week," he said. "And I can't get out of the house without medical personnel tailing me."

"I said what's new."

"Slumming. That's new." He casually loosened his tie with a finger. "Never thought I'd find myself back here."

A beat of silence.

"So…" I began. Can anyone say awkward? "Mayor's son, huh? Funny how that happens."

To my surprise, he actually laughed. Not the belly-churning Santa-wannabe _Hohoho_ kind; more like a tolerant, highbrow laugh that screams "I'm well-bred and I find you amusing." Rich people get amused by the weirdest things. "I thought you already knew," he said.

"Excuse me? Don't you think I would've treated you with, I don't know, a little bit more deference if I knew?"

"You struck me as a non-deferential type." He laughed again, but not as haughtily this time. "When you asked my name, I thought you were pulling my leg."

Of all the arrogant, self-centered, egotistical chinchillas. I mean, who the heck does this guy think he is? Well, he's Gill Hamilton, but really, he couldn't expect _everyone _to recognize him, could he? The bloated ego suffocated me.

"You are so British," I said.

"I'm not British."

"I know." I sighed and faced him. "So, really, why are you still here? You already have the jacket."

He shrugged. Ah, the signature move. I was wondering when I'd see it again. "I just wanted to get away for a while."

"From your life?"

"Yes."

"And you're doing that by slumming."

"Yes."

"You are _so_ British."

We talked about random things. He mostly talked about—you guessed it—stock market rates. Annual returns and predictions and rich people stuff. I have no idea what possessed him to believe that someone like me could possibly be interested in learning arcane mechanisms like numbers. I almost fell asleep; to be honest, I'd rather listen to Nickleback twice a day than listen to Gill drone on and on about his… thing. Whatever you call that thing.

No, not _that_ thing, for the love of intoxicated kangaroos. Excuse me while I pull my head out of the gutter.

I told him about Brass Bar and our pseudo-family dynamic going on, and about Kathy and Maya and Chase. (Gill: "I think I like that guy.")

I left out the bike part, though.

For some reason, Gill was inclined to talk that night. A far cry from the reticent butthole I'd picked up at the bridge. He almost seemed comfortable, sitting there on the couch ranting about how people ask for his autograph even though he's not a celebrity.

(Ahh, if you only knew, Gill.)

So what did I learn from this exchange? I learned the most shocking lesson of all: that Gill, along with other rich people, was also human, like the rest of us. I know! Outrageous, right? _Unthinkable_.

At half past ten, he glanced at his crocodile-leather Patek Philippe and said, "Will you look at that."

With just a tiny bit of bitterness, I made a show of examining my bare, empty, markedly Patek-less wrist. "Wow, look how late it's gotten."

He laughed his highbrow laugh. Nothing like an aristocratic "hah" to make you feel like a real plebeian.

"Good night, then." He rose, patted my head like I was his poodle, and left, just like that.

I sat unmoving on the couch for a few seconds, stunned, staring at the door. The door stared back. The nerve of that guy. Honestly. Barging in and leaving like it was nothing—he should consider a career change to burgling. Or selling life insurance, whichever.

Personally, I'd choose the lesser evil: burgling.

I stretched, yawned, and prepared to turn in for the night. Hayden may be kind, but he's not as forgiving as you'd think when it comes to tardiness. Kinda makes me wonder why Chase isn't fired yet.

I passed by the couch and noticed something on it. With a sense of foreboding and an imaginary _Jaws_ theme piping in the background, I approached the thing.

He'd left his tie.

Somehow, I got the idea that it wasn't completely accidental.

* * *

_1. How the heck do you spell omelet/omelette?_

_2. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, to be honest. Then again, I'm not entirely happy with the world, but the world's still there. So… yeah. I had a point, I swear; it just got lost somewhere in that sentence._

_3. I'm sorry this took so long. I was busy procrastinating. I'm a professional procrastinator. I even procrastinate the actual act of procrastinating._

_4. Can you believe I actually had to google "Most expensive watch brands in the world" just to find a plausible one? I've never even heard of Patek Philippe before then. I almost put Swatch in there because it's the most "expensive" brand I know, haha._

_5. Whenever I'm alone, I talk to my dog in stilted, basic German. (Wer ist der gute Junge? Du bist! Ja, du bist!)_

_6. …I'm not sure why I told you that._

_7. OMG you people! *glomps everyone* I love you guys. Thanks for all the support! Have a… um, free internet brofist? I'm running out of free things. But they're free! As free as America!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

_"Can you see me? All of me? Probably not. No one ever really has."__  
__―__Jeffrey Eugenides__,_Middlesex

* * *

"Scoot."

"You're stepping on my foot."

"Then scoot."

"Angela…"

It was a good idea at the time. I swear it was a good idea at the time.

I'm really not sure what possessed me to assume that Kathy, Chase, Maya, and Luke would enjoy being crammed in my hulking deathtrap of a car, but I swear, it seemed such a good idea at the time.

I could've put Chase in the passenger seat to avoid the nastiness-slash-sexual tension between him and Maya that's so thick, it can put Cool Whip out of business. Or, similarly, I could've put Maya in the passenger seat instead. I could even have forced Kathy in the back, between the two of them, to act as a human-shaped love-hate buffer.

But no, I had to shove Maya, Chase, and Luke together in the backseat, with Chase right in the middle.

Times like this, I just have to go _What the hell was I thinking?_

"There's a bit of space to your left, Maya." I fiddled with the stereo knobs; as usual, nothing good was on. I don't even know why I bothered. "And stop playing your own demented version of footsie. I'm talking to you, Chase."

These people. It's like a full-time babysitting job, only the babies are smarter and are capable of sassing you back. At least they weren't drooling all over me, but somehow, I think I'd prefer that to _this_.

"Luke, you dickhead," Chase snapped. "Your elbow's poking—shit, who farted?"

Oh, for the love of imperial balaclavas.

Through the rear view mirror, I shot the offender an accusing glare. He had the grace to blush.

"It's the beans," Luke said, rubbing the back of his head. "I had beans for lunch."

I took a deep breath—_oh my God why did I do that_—and focused on the road. I survived high school. I survived 12/24/12. I survived a two-hour special of _Pretty Little Liars _last week because I was too lazy to change the channel.

I could survive this.

What's a couple more minutes?

A couple more minutes of immature bickering and silent farting, yes, but it's still just a couple more minutes.

The only reason I volunteered to drive Chase around to look for a new apartment is because I have this soft spot for him the way I have a soft spot people who've had their bikes stolen. He's like the younger bikeless brother I'll always be thankful I never had.

But now, with all the chattering and bickering and farting?

He can take that darned soggy-ass bike and shove 'em where the sun don't shine.

In my defense, though, I volunteered to drive _Chase_, not Chase plus three.

A very, _very_ tiresome plus three.

Kathy and Maya, I could tolerate. I mean, we're almost sort of maybe-friends, right? Nothing odd about the two of them wanting to provide moral support for our dear soon-to-be homeless cook. Not that he appreciated it, but point. Missing it.

It would've been bearable, you know. Driving around with your semi-friends, looking for the nicest, most convenient, cheapest place to live. I could've pretended it was a pleasure cruise around Detroit.

Luke just had to jump in and ruin everything.

You remember Toby? Yeah. Luke's the polar opposite of Toby. He's a gigantic ball of dog-like energy, loud and obnoxious, with a voice that makes every exclamation point dreadfully audible. No indoor voice whatsoever, that guy.

He sculpts "things" out of wood. Literally. One of his pieces is titled _Stuff_.

What's weird is that big-time art junkies actually love his work. He could be rolling in dough right now, making money off his lumps of wood, but he's picky when it comes to selling his junk: sometimes I think he just enjoys being poor.

Yep, he's weird.

He's impulsive, whimsical, and slightly volatile, doing everything to the "extreme and beyond."

He brushes his teeth extremely. He puts on socks extremely. He turns lights off extremely.

Worst of all, he also farts extremely.

The putrid odor of rotten eggs, moldy cabbages, and pent-up creativity filled the car. "Open the windows, people," I said, breathing through my mouth. "Air it out."

"They were never closed," Chase said.

Well, damn.

"It smells like eggs, doesn't it?"

"Shut up, Luke."

"Isn't funny? I ate beans but my fart smells like eggs."

"Can it_, _you moron."

"So!" I cut in, before Chase could go full-out bitch mode on Luke. "How's Bo?"

At the mention of his sidekick, I mean best friend, Luke brightened. "Pretty good. He's been taking lessons from me," he said. "Hey Angela, how about you model for my next sculpture?"

Contrary to consequent testimonials from the people present, I did _not_ preen. I do not preen, ever. "Oh, me?" I said, non-preeningly.

"Yeah! You'd be perfect. Your height, your build…"

"Pshaw. You can't possibly be suggesting…" Still not preening. I was driving, for heaven's sake; how could I have preened while driving?

No, I am not being defensive about this.

"No, no, I mean it. I don't think anyone else could fill the role. See, I've been wanting someone androgynous for a while now—you know, someone who looks like a twelve-year-old boy while still being a girl, like—"

"You think I'm androgynous?" I might've said that a _little_ louder than I'd intended. Just a little.

"Hoo boy," said Chase.

"I mean it in a good way!" Luke was leaning forward now, talking excitedly with his hands. "It'll be so edgy. Like, with your hair and all, your cheekbones, y'know, s'like a boy and a girl in one body, no curves—"

"I _do _have curves!" My knuckles on the steering wheel seemed whiter than usual. Weird. "I have boobs, okay? They're not big boobs, but they're boobs."

Kathy brought a hand to her mouth and found something distracting outside the window. Someone behind me sniggered.

"Shut it, Chase."

"I didn't say anything."

"I think you're very pretty, Angela."

"Thanks, Maya." I turned left on an intersection and passed an ice cream shop. At the moment, an ice cream cone didn't seem like a bad idea, especially when I pictured it upended on Luke's head. "Glad to know someone thinks I'm attractive."

"You _are_ attractive, yeah? Just not in the usual feminine girly-girl way. More like, y'know, a twelve-year-old boy in a—"

"Luke, do you like your nose?" I asked sweetly.

He was thrown off by the non-sequitur question. "Yeah, well, not actively. But yeah, I kinda like it, the way I like my other body parts."

"Good." I slammed my foot on the gas. "Because if you don't stop talking, that nose is gonna end up very, very broken."

Nobody said anything after that. I think a broken nose didn't appeal to anybody at the moment. Finally, some peace and quiet.

But you know what they say: all good things must come to an end.

"When I was in the shower this morning," Luke said, "I thought of something really deep."

"Really?" Maya said. "Tell us."

"If the earth has a north and south pole, how come there's no east and west pole?"

The silence that followed was deafening. It was the kind of silence that covers its face and wails, _Why am I friends with this guy?_

"It's too quiet," said Maya after a few minutes, clearly awkward. "You guys want to sing? Anyone up for a song?"

"Oh my God," Kathy mumbled. It was the first thing she said all morning. And when Kathy says that, it usually means trouble. She shot me a warning look and mouthed, _Say no._

_What?_ I mouthed back, my attention alternating between Kathy and the road.

She bent closer, mouthing the words slowly. _Say. No._

_What?_

_Say no! _She emphasized the o, her lips puckering to a cute little loop. _No!_

A throat was cleared. "We can see you, you know," Chase said.

"I can't." I heard Maya shifting behind me; a moment later her mouth was beside my ear. "What are they doing? Are you guys playing charades?"

"Knock-knock jokes!" Luke all but yelled, unwittingly saving me and Kathy. "Maya, want a knock-knock joke? I got a funny one."

"Okay!" Maya chirped. "Knock-knock."

"Who's there?" Luke answered.

Maya stared at Luke. Luke stared at Maya. Chase facepalmed.

* * *

"Are you sure this is it, Maya?"

We stood in front of the building in a semicircle, letting our eyes roam up, down, and side to side, thinking what the others didn't have the heart to say. Maya fidgeted.

If apartments could talk, this one would've said _I'm not an apartment, are you blind?_ It certainly looked more like a drug den than an apartment. A few key elements were missing, like a corpse hanging from the third-floor window, or police cars parked with sirens blazing, some gunshots maybe, but it's getting there. Give it a bit more time to fester and it'd probably turn to a full-time villain hideout.

Chase would love it.

"There's no way I'm living in _that_," said Chase.

I stand corrected.

"Should we go inside, at least?" Kathy asked. Even Kathy, the voice of reason for all of us, seemed apprehensive. "You know, to be sure."

"You go first, Angela."

Well, it couldn't be helped: the hardest tasks always fall on the brave. Hero stuff, you see. I squared my shoulders fearlessly. "No thanks."

"You're the one who's going to live in it," Luke said, nodding to Chase. "You go first."

Chase sighed a longsuffering the-things-I-do-for-friendship sigh. In hindsight, it sounded more like a the-things-I-do-so-I-don't-become-homeless sigh, but I digress.

The door creaked with the ominous sort groan you're bound to hear in a horror movie. You know, the creak that signals a serial killer hiding behind the bathroom curtains, things like that. Anyway, it was creepy as balls in there. Like, cobwebs-on-the-ceiling, deserted-hallways creepy.

And it smelled like… well. Don't ask.

A man in a red-and-black checkered shirt sat on the floor, a battered guitar perched across his knees. His half-lidded, bloodshot eyes roamed the ceiling before settling on Chase, to whom he gave a dazed nod.

"Yo, brother," the man drawled. "Wassup?"

"Is he the landlord?" Maya whispered to me, flapping a hand in front of her nose. "And why is it so smoky in here?"

"Does anyone live here?" I asked the sto—I mean, the guy.

"Right." The man strummed on his guitar, his eyes focused somewhere between Chase's knees. "I mean, what." He laughed. "My words taste orange, see. Get my drift?"

Luke was _ecstatic. _"Dude, I know, right? A bit yellowish."

"Green on the side."

Luke was now _extremely_ ecstatic, almost bouncing on his extreme heels. "Guys, this dude's like, totally awesome." He turned to me. "We should take him with us."

"Luke," I sighed. "You can't just 'take' people with you. This isn't one of those video games where you recruit companions and form a party and go adventuring or whatever."

"What's that smell?" Maya said. "Something really pungent…"

"All right, everyone _out_." Chase ushered us all out of the door. Rather roughly, may I add. "Get off your slow ass, Luke. Move it."

We filed outside one by one, shading our eyes against the sun.

"What's going on?" Maya asked. "Isn't he the landlord?"

Kathy exchanged a glance with Chase. She cleared her throat. "No, he's not. He's… let's just say we won't get anything much from him in that state."

"Well, so much for this one." I kicked a rock; it struck the curb and bounced away. "Are you sure this is the right address, Maya?"

"I'm sure!" Maya screwed her face in concentration. "Dad said follow the main road, turn right at the intersection, go north until you reach a gas station—"

"Whoa, wait a sec," I said, mirroring her frown. "Turn _right_ at the intersection?"

A moment of silence for the precious minutes wasted, and for the others more to be wasted on another long, long drive.

"Wonderful," said Chase.

* * *

"You _did_ turn right this time, right?"

We ended up in front of a nice-looking apartment building with a tasteful brick façade and tall windows. How classy. There were a few cars lined up in the parking lot, most of them seemingly decent. In front of the building, just above the door, hung a gigantic sign that said _Applebee's. _And below it, in smaller letters, the words _Neighborhood Grill and Bar _winked in bright green neon_._

What a weird apartment.

To make things weirder, people were actually _eating_ inside like it was a neighborhood grill and bar.

"I think that woman's the landlady," I said.

Chase glared.

Everyone glared.

How unfair, right? I mean, if people wanted to eat breakfast in an apartment, then let them. No need to go glaring about. It was Applebee's' fault for putting a _Neighborhood Grill and Bar _sign up there when it was clearly an apartment.

All right, fine. It was my fault. Again.

* * *

"You know, there's this thing called GPS…"

"I don't have a GPS, Kathy; I'm poor."

"Knock-knock!"

"Doesn't anyone here have a smartphone?"

"Can't afford it."

"Hey, I said knock-knock!"

"Shut up, Luke."

"Can't we just postpone this? I mean, you're not getting kicked out until the end of the month—"

"Luke, do you like your nose?"

* * *

"Right. I think it's time to give Angela a refresher course on left and right. Who's with me?"

"But I turned right this time for sure! I swear to whoever I turned right."

"You turned right… from the direction just we came from?"

"…Goddammit."

* * *

"Hey guys, I think it's that one."

"It better be."

"Cheer up, man. Look, it's pretty swanky. For a pleb house, you know?"

"What, that purple one?"

"Purple? I don't see a purple building anywhere."

"That one. The one with a slanting roof? It's right _there_."

"Chase, that's green."

"Whoa, what the hell, man? You're colorblind, too? We're basically brothers!"

"Wait, really? What color is this?"

"That's red. I'm not fucking blind—"

"How about that one?"

"Gray. Now stop it with—"

"This one? What color's this one?"

"For Pete's sake, you assholes, I'm not blind. I can see color."

"Right. Sorry."

"What about this one?"

* * *

"Angela, if it's another goddamned Applebee's I swear I'm gonna go live in a fucking box in a street corner."

"Chill, yo. I'm pretty sure this is it. Isn't it, Maya?"

"I think so. Maybe?"

"Hey, where's the enthusiasm? Come on, guys! It's like going on a quest!"

"Why don't you go on a quest to do the world a favor and go jump in a fucking lake?"

"That's pretty harsh, Chase. Even for you."

"But there aren't any lakes here, man. Hey Angie, let's go look for lakes after this, 'aight?"

"…_Angie_?"

* * *

"Okay." I slammed the car door closed. "This is it, right? This really is it."

Maya tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and frowned. "I'm not sure. I have to go inside." She glanced at each of us in turn. "Come with me."

The exterior was passable enough, if not downright homey. Potted azaleas on windows, nice clean steps, an old archway over the front doors. Bit old fashioned, but passable.

We trooped inside like five blind mice with our tails cut off. The floorboards groaned a little. We found ourselves in a long sunlit hallway with a set of stairs at the far end, going up.

"There's no one here," Luke said.

"Knock on a door." Chase had a hand over his mouth. Which meant he was really, _really _annoyed. "Damn it, Angela, knock on a stupid door already."

Pushy guy. I was about to obey—grudgingly—when the nearest door creaked open and an old lady's head jutted out. "Yes?" she said.

"Granny Yolanda!" Maya stepped forward and embraced the lady.

"Maya? Is that you?" With trembling fingers, the old lady unclipped a pair of spectacles from her collar and slid them on. "Goodness, it _is_ you! My, look how you've grown. You're the spitting image of your dear mother."

The lady—presumably the landlady—fussed over Maya like a mother hen, cooing the kind of things grandmothers coo while pinching your cheeks. 'Have you eaten yet?' 'How are your studies?' 'What's this about a meth lab I keep hearing from your mom?' You know, grandmotherly things like that.

It made me a little homesick, to be honest.

"And these are your friends?" said Yolanda, turning to the rest of us. "Come in, come in, make yourselves at home. Don't be shy, now."

The room was bright, cozy, all-around well-kept, furnished with mismatched furniture. It's like a piece of country right in the middle of the city. Being the obedient young whippersnappers we are, we obeyed and duly made ourselves comfortable.

Yolanda brought out a tray of tea and biscuits. How English, I must say. Rather quaint, isn't it, oh yes—mighty kind of her, I reckon.

Bloody tally-ho. Erm, crumpet?

"Auntie," Maya said, once we were all settled down, "my friend here—say hi, Chase—he's looking for a place to live. We were wondering if you have any rooms available?"

"Oh, this lovely young lady?" Yolanda gave Chase a kind smile. "You're in luck, sweetie. We have one right upstairs."

I choked on unsweetened English tradition. The others had similar reactions: Kathy unconvincingly "coughed," Maya stuffed a biscuit in her mouth, Luke chortled outright. Chase managed a strained smile; I swear I could see a vein throbbing right by his temple. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate it, but I'm a guy."

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry." Yolanda laid a palm on her cheek. She leaned forward in her chair and said, in a lowered voice: "Are you… what's the word again? Transsexual?"

Luke's tea spurted out of his nose.

* * *

After checking out Chase's soon-to-be new flat, I decided to drop him off first because his place was nearest. And also because we'd had a good laugh at his expense and it didn't seem wise to keep him in the car longer than necessary.

"We're here." I pulled up to the curb and noticed, on the other side of the street, a group of burly men in hard hats, some bulldozers, and an excavator. They were pretty hard not to notice. I mean, hard hats? You'd have to be blind not to notice those.

"Itching to start demolition," Kathy said. "Typical."

With an annoyed humph, Chase climbed out of the car. I excused myself to the others and got off as well.

"Wait," I called after him. He kept walking. "Hey, Pinhead, I said wait."

He stopped. Thank God. The man could seriously power-walk.

"What?"

"Apologized to Maya yet?" I asked, a bit out of breath.

His eyes darted past my shoulder and settled on the car behind me. "No."

"Well, you should. And soon. She did you a big favor, guy."

"Why does this matter to you so much?"

I laughed, and it wasn't a mocking laugh. I know, shocking, right? "You should know by now that I'm really nosy when it comes to people I care about."

God. That was the cheesiest thing I've ever said since high school. It was so cheesy I could've passed it off as a quote from _The Vampire Diaries_.

"Yeah, thanks. Anyway"—Chase sighed and stretched—"that apology thing. I'm getting to it."

"You better."

"Yeah, yeah. Now scram."

I watched him walk up the steps to the doomed building and was about to unleash a corny _They grow up so fast_ line to myself, but someone who apparently hates familial moments tapped me on the shoulder.

Annoyed that my moment had been ruined, I turned around and—

_Oh my exacerbated nachos_.

Seriously, who wears all _freaking_ white in a place like this?

Gill Hamilton, that's who.

White. White from the neck down. Striking, blinding white that says _Look at me, I wear white because can afford dry-cleaning. _My God, he could cosplay as the sun in that get-up. The only thing he wore that wasn't white was the yellow hard hat sitting on his head, and even that was gleaming—less gleaming than the rest of him, yeah, but gleaming nonetheless.

"Hey," I said, trying not to squint.

He tilted his thankfully non-blinding head and said, "What are you doing in this dump?"

"Dropping my friend off." I nodded in the direction of the others. "I have friends, unlike some people."

"Touché."

"So." I imitated his angled head. I felt proud that I acted less taken aback than I felt. "What are you doing in this dump? Slumming again?"

He sniffed and shifted his weight to the other foot. "I wish. I'm overseeing the demolition." He made a vague motion towards the bulldozers. "This part of the city is underdeveloped compared to others, so we're undergoing a road-widening project. Political stuff, mainly. You'll get bored of it."

Okay, he had a point. But just to prove him wrong, I tried to keep the conversation going.

"You're overseeing the project? But you're not an architect. You're not even a public official." At this point I was sort of rambling. I don't even know what an _architect_ does. "…Are you?"

"No." He scratched the outer corner of his eye with a pinky. "I'm overseeing _on behalf_ of the mayor, who, as I'm sure you're aware, is also my father. Keeping up appearances, publicity stunts. I told you: political stuff."

"Is that legal? You're not even needed. Not here, I mean. Besides, are you sure you should be working? You know…" I lowered my voice to a whisper. "In your, um, _delicate condition_?"

Gill's left eyebrow twitched, but other than that, his expression remained neutral. "My ob-gyn says it's fine," he said. "I'm experiencing mood swings, but—"

God, how does he do that with a straight face?

"Okay, okay, I get it. Bad word choice." I just noticed a medical van parked on the other side of the street. Gill saw me staring and followed my line of sight.

"The paramedics are for my sake," he said, by way of explanation. "In case you're wondering."

"Thought so."

Behind me, my car honked—and let me tell you, at the moment it was the most horrific sound in the world. It was like a nuclear fart, magnified twenty-eight times, and with Gill right there I did _not_ want to think about farts.

I turned and glared at Kathy, sitting in the passenger seat. She signaled for me to hurry up.

"Gotta run," I told Gill. "Oh, and I pawned your tie to a male prostitute."

I just had enough time to see the stricken look on Gill's face before I turned on my heel and sprinted towards the car. I have no idea who or what on earth Armani is, but he/she/it makes _super_ ties.

"Dude, that was Gill Hamilton, wasn't it?" Luke said as I climbed into the driver's seat. "I usually see him in art galleries. During exhibits and stuff."

"I've heard of him before." Kathy squinted at Gill's white back. "This is the first time I've actually seen him. How did you become friends with that kind of person?"

"We're not friends," I said, revving the engine. It sounded like a dying plea. "We're just… we just happen to be familiar with each other's faces, that's all."

As I pulled away from the curb, Gill looked over his shoulder and met my eye. He gave me a two-fingered salute and stalked off in the opposite direction.

Maya giggled. "He is _so_ British."

* * *

_1. I know, I know. I took me _that_ long to come up with _this_. I'm sorry!_

_2. I just couldn't help it. I really, really love Chase. And Maya. And Kathy._

_3. And Luke._

_4. I made him a sculptor because, you know, AU. Plus, it fits into the modern artsy-fartsy lot that I'm so fond of love-hating._

_5. I sort of tacked Gill on at the end because, well, I didn't want a chapter without him._

_6. Let's talk about ratings. Ratings are nice, aren't they? Okay, that's enough talk about ratings._

_7. Great Britain is bloody brilliant, aye, mate?_

_8. Let's talk about the point of this chapter. It's neither here nor there, and it's not behind me, either. Okay, that's enough talk about the point of this chapter._

_9. I have no idea what Yolanda's personality is, but… *wields the mighty artistic license of artistry*_

_10. Again, sorry for the late update, peeps. I've been… um, busy. *shifty eyes* _

_11. Thank you, everyone! Thank you so, so much for the support. You're awesome, man. Thanks for reading!_


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